


Apart from the Weeds that Grow

by ProfessorDrarry



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Apparating (Harry Potter), Fluff, Hogsmeade, M/M, Post-Hogwarts, Potions Master Draco Malfoy, Professor Neville Longbottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 11:51:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14401566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfessorDrarry/pseuds/ProfessorDrarry
Summary: “Malfoy,” Neville interrupted casually. “I had heard you’d been appointed to the Potions position temporarily. Welcome back to Scotland?”“I can find a different flat,” the blonde man whined.---The town that we lived in.The memories shaken…





	Apart from the Weeds that Grow

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Sidewalks by Story of the Year  
> This piece was part of the Sing Me A Rare: B Side OS Competition, Spring/Summer 2018. I had a choice of song and I could choose my own pairing.  
> All characters, spells, magical equipment and locations from the Harry Potter series belong to JK Rowling.  
> I'd like to thank my beta who will be unveiled at the end of this competition.

_The bridge is all crumbled, th_ e _water soaks into rocks_

_That fell at the bottom of the road (at the end of the town.)_

_The town that we lived in, th_ e _memories shaken_

**apart from the weeds that grow**

* * *

 The tiny owl who delivered the message flew straight into the middle of the room because the windows were thrown open in the summer breeze. Neville might have been shocked, except that his windows weren't closed from May to October and he simply didn't care enough to notice. The owl _did_ care, however, when it couldn't find a place to land.

He rescued the irritated bird with an extended arm and unwrapped it’s proffered letter. It left immediately, with a haughty hoot of indignation as it flew out of sight.

“Well,” he exclaimed as he read, reaching a hand out to the table where his cat was watching the window with interest. “It would seem, Teq, that the upstairs flat has finally been taken. We'll have neighbours this summer!”

The cat looked at him once with utter indifference and leapt down watch the window, as though expecting the bird would return at any second.

For five years, Neville’s life had been comfortably predictable; his carefully built safe zone brought him a peace he’d never experienced before in his entire life. From infancy, expectations had been connected to crushing disappointment in every decision he’d ever made. No amount of kindness or brave assertion had ever managed to save him from being mediocre in everyone's eyes, and being a failure had grown exhausting and heavy well before the one war-driven moment that would define him forever.

‘Hogwarts Professor’ was hardly the life his Gran had tried, with fervour and urgency, to create for him. It was, however, his calling. He treasured the quiet rhythm of a school year; busy, full of interesting changes, yet at the same time, stable and predictable. The freedom he had, to live in the village and tend to his own large garden that sprawled it’s way inside as the winter months dragged on. Or the responsibility of helping recreate the diminished Hogsmeade, mending and rebuilding both relationships and brick buildings. At this point, Neville was as much a part of the community as he was a linchpin of the castle.

He didn’t need to be told that he was a much-beloved teacher; the students showed him in respect and hard work. They showed him by asking for advice in hushed voices at the end of the professor’s table, and in packed office hours many times a week. When he went home each evening to his flat on the first floor of the drafty, creaky house that he loved with his whole being, he was always satisfied and calm.

Discrete weekend trips into London staved off the loneliness, and most days, he truly did not feel alone. He knew no one _quite_ believed him when he said it, but he was too content to care.

With this life in mind, he tried to wrap his head around the disturbance of New People. Would they be a young couple, just starting out? Would they have loud fights or loud sex, but bring him lasagna on the weekends and be easily forgiven because of happy smiles and passionate dinner conversations? Or perhaps an old lady, recently widowed, with a cat friend for Tequila and a propensity for making too strong tea and sharing village gossip? Or maybe a young musician, come to play at the pub, practising late into the night and bringing much-needed noise to the sleepy hamlet?

Neville fascinated himself with these musings as he stood on his porch each night that week, watching the river flow under the crumbled footbridge that led to the old monastery ruins; the banks here flooded every spring, making more stones fall through the winter and mix with the rising snowmelt until the water hit the footpath. Still, if you ignored the occasional flooding, his house was in the perfect spot.

It was on the way to the castle, between the high street and the village neighbourhood. Neville knew everyone in the village by name. As soon as summer took hold of the highlands — always later than you would have liked, and in a bracing, painful sort of way at first — people would appear from hibernation. Neville made a point of using his large, ageing porch each night. Sometimes he sat, more often he stood, with tea or a beer, waving and chatting jovially with those that passed him by.

His life was small and perfect, contained and beautiful. And if he didn’t panic about this change, he was sure he would be rewarded by having it be a good one.

* * *

The weather was abnormally beautiful on the first of July. The wind was subtle and cool, instead of bracing. The sun was shining with determined ease, and there was no rain in the forecast for the entire week. Neville was busy puttering in the already prosperous garden when the sudden crack of Apparition sounded out at the front of the house.

They had arrived.

Neville took a deep breath and put on his most amiable smile. He rounded the corner to the front walkway while running his hands over his trousers to try and clean them slightly.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” a familiar voice said as he came into view.

Neville’s head snapped up at the sound and he froze. For many moments, he didn’t move an inch. Finally, he just began to laugh.

“It’s only a year,” the newcomer insisted, ignoring Neville’s laughter. “I promise… I didn’t have many options, and I swear I didn’t know, so just—“

“Malfoy,” Neville interrupted casually. “I had heard you’d been appointed to the Potions position temporarily. Welcome back to Scotland?”

“I can find a different flat,” the blonde man whined.

Neville took pity on the poor letting agent, who was looking back and forth between them, keys in an extended hand, and with the most comical look of discomfort, Neville had ever witnessed plastered on his face.

“Nonsense,” Neville said jovially. “Take the keys from poor Jonas there. I can show you the flat.”

Malfoy opened his mouth. Closed it again. Snatched the keys and picked up an old-fashioned valise from where it sat at his feet. He turned to Neville expectantly.

Neville thanked Jonas and began to walk towards the side door that led to the staircase to the top floor.

“I was serious,” Malfoy asserted once they were out of earshot. “I can find somewhere else.”

Neville turned to study Draco Malfoy for a moment. He looked at him harshly, and the other man cowered, only slightly. But Neville noticed. A flash of interest flooded the pit of his stomach as the expression fled from Malfoy’s face, but he resolutely ignored it.

“This is the last requirement for your potion master’s course at the Ministry, isn’t it? McGonagall said,” Neville said jovially. “I know you’ve been doing good work.”

Malfoy looked at him with a stern scowl but nodded eventually.

Neville leaned on the rail and shook his head. He was going to have to be explicit, apparently. He wasn’t willing to leave anything to chance, not with Malfoy. He stepped forward and was immediately satisfied when Draco stepped back from him warily.

“Let’s discuss a few things,” Neville said softly. “Then _you_ can decide if you are going to live here. Yes?”

Malfoy nodded again, with flitting eyes and hunched shoulders. Neville inched forward again until he had crowded Malfoy into the wall with his presence. He was taller when they stood like this, Malfoy cowering slightly, and he used it to his advantage.

“First and foremost,” Neville began, crossing his arms and setting his face into his best stern expression. “I take my job very seriously. I will be here long after you have completed this little teaching assignment that you’ve been forced into. I won’t tolerate you bullying any of my students. And I assure you, they _will_ tell me if you do. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes,” Malfoy growled.

“Good. Secondly, you will not call me Longbottom. Not ever,” Neville said, his voice gaining an edge he hadn't planned on using. He took a breath and backed off. “You may call me ‘professor’ at school. When you see me here, or in the village, I am Neville. Conversely, you are called Draco. I won’t discuss alternatives. ”

“Um,” Malfoy began. “Okay?”

“I’ll just let you take your own time figuring out why that is. Lastly,” Neville said, dropping his arms. “It’s been a long time, Draco. We aren’t children in different houses at school. I’m going to just move on, if it’s all the same to you? Civility, I assume, comes easier to you now than it did at twelve?”

Draco did not respond, but he also didn’t argue.

“Good. Let me show you the shower before I go. It’s a little tricky to convert,” Neville said with finality, directing them up the stairs.

* * *

Within a week, Neville forgot that Draco was even there. Largely because he was rarely home, and when he was, he was silent. The man would disappear on the path up to the castle each morning before nine, and wouldn’t reappear until well into the evening. Neville ignored him most days; he was in full summer mode, and he loved every moment. He didn’t see the point in focusing on a thing that wasn’t really impacting him.

The only time the ignoring got difficult was when Draco trudged down the path at the same time each night; far too late and far too exhausted to be walking on his own power. Neville always said hello, usually got a nod in return and nothing more. The man had no reason whatsoever to act like such a miserable fool, but Neville, quite simply, didn’t care.

At least at first.

As the summer wore on and the first day of term drew nearer, Neville realised they were going to have to find some civility, if only to stave off inevitable disagreements. So each night, he tried to breach the gap. Draco would always decline, always polite but also always clipped and final

“Beer?” he'd ask innocently.

“Maybe another time,” Draco would reply.

It became a ritual.

A painful, irritating ritual that made Neville want to scream. On the third week, he’d finally had enough.

“Draco Malfoy,” he said sharply, the late evening sun on the last day of July making them both glow unnaturally. The words jolted Draco out of his deep thoughts like he’d been slapped, and he looked up at Neville with an irritated frown.

“Yes?” he replied, visibly resetting his shoulders and face neutral.

“When I offer you this beer, you will take it,” Neville ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument. He reached down and picked up the extra beer he’d been taking out of the fridge all week and held out the bottle. “You will take it and then you will stand here beside me and drink at least half of it.”

Malfoy floundered for a moment, but Neville did not relent. He knew this voice would have enough authority to win, and he refused to back down.

“Also,” he continued, “you _will_ tell me what the hell it is you do all day up there in that stifling dungeon on these beautiful sunny days. When it is empty, you may disappear again into your hidey-hole to be a miserable sod as long as you like, but so help me. You will take this friggin’ beer.”

“I—”

“So, _Draco_ , Neville interjected. “Beer?”

Draco hesitated a moment before sighing a world-weary sigh and stepping up the stairs to take the cold bottle from Neville. He could pretend all he wanted, but Neville knew relief when he saw it; if he was honest, recognising relief was his speciality. He watched Draco’s temples relax as he swallowed, saw a quarter inch of tension disappear from the man’s shoulders.

“Why don’t you just apparate home?” Neville said after Draco’s third sip. “I mean, walking is admirable and everything, but I promise you, you aren’t going to want to be on that path in January. Might as well get used to making the trip in the daylight.”

Draco froze like a trapped rabbit and blushed furiously before murmuring something unintelligible. Neville tamped down the flare of irritation he felt and looked at Draco steadily.

“I don’t have my license,” Draco repeated, louder and daring Neville into something that he had no intention of getting into. He simply nodded.

“And no,” Draco continued. “I wasn’t allowed to live in the castle, either. Or go somewhere outside of England to finish my course. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I mean,” Neville mused with a shrug. “I’m not really sure _we_ , you and I, _need_ to talk about it, do we? I’m hardly unaware of why those restrictions are in place.”

They drank in silence for a few more minutes, a heavy and unpleasant weight inhabiting the space between them. Draco balanced his bottle on the railing suddenly and inhaled sharply.

“I should go,” he murmured.

“I could teach you, before school. If you’d like,” Neville said suddenly. He winced at his own volume. Why was he speaking so loud? What was he compensating for?

“Excuse me?” Draco said quietly.  
  
“Well… I mean, Jesus bloody fuck, Draco,” Neville huffed, massaging his own thigh with his free hand, his discomfort needing a physical outlet.

He took a deep breath and continued, “You lurk around, flinching at your own shadow, under the ludicrous belief that anyone, at all, is noticing you. You _have_ realised that anyone who cared even a smidgen about your little reign of terror is either dead or not here, right? Who is it that you suppose is waiting to get revenge?”

Neville glanced back at Draco, waiting for a fight, an answer. When none came, he finished his point.

“There’s no one,” he said gently. “You might as well start getting used to living here. The students will massacre you otherwise.”  
  
Unbidden, tears hit Draco's face; they were sudden and he seemed immediately embarrassed, turning his face away from Neville as though trying to remain unseen.

“I won't apologise,” Neville said, keeping his voice hard and studying the river across the road, his own embarrassment appearing from the dusty crevices of his past; he didn't use the feeling often these days. But it had been a long time since he’d seen another adult cry, and he didn’t feel excellent about being the cause.

“I didn't ask for one,” Draco whispered angrily.  
  
“You needed to hear that,” Neville added firmly.  
  
“I know.”  
  
“You can stop crying now,” Neville said, shifting uncomfortably. “It's a little pathetic.”  
  
“I _promise_ you, I am trying,” Draco replied with a little huff of laughter.  
  
“Need me to leave?”  
  
He watched as Draco panicked a little, and Neville, for whatever reason, understood how he felt. It was odd company — distant and complicated and appropriately untrusting, but. Still. Draco shook his head. Took another sip of his beer. seemed to calm down.

“No, sorry, I'm fine,” he said eventually. “I'm just…”

Neville waited.

“Did you ever hear the story of the little tin soldier?” Draco asked suddenly.  
  
Neville laughed. “So we're changing the subject?”  
  
“No,” Draco said, shaking his head in frustration. “I...I think I'm apologising. Or... I dunno. You're just going to need to give me a minute to get there. Fucking hell, Longbottom, just the tiniest bit of slack. Please.”  
  
Neville smirked at him and gestured for him to carry on, muttering ‘Neville’ beneath his breath but not interrupting.  
  
"It's Muggle,” Draco explained shortly. “The story.”  
  
"I'll try and contain my shock,” Neville deadpanned.  
  
“Okay, never mind,” Draco said.

Neville laughed again.  
  
Draco studied him steadily for a moment, and it made Neville squirm.

“Sorry, I’m listening,” Neville apologised a moment later.

“The soldier, he only has one leg,” Draco restarted. “He falls in love with a ballerina because she stands on one leg, and he thinks they’re the same.”

“What?” Neville asks. He’s already confused. Muggle stories always threw him for a loop. They made no sense. “Why does the soldier only have one leg?”  
  
“Oh, yeah,” Draco said dismissively, gesturing with his bottle now, “Well, they're toys, and they ran out of metal or something so he's not finished.”

Neville laughed, “Don’t you think that's kind of an important detail?”

Draco growled as Neville kept giggling slightly. He couldn’t seem to help it. They had hit a weird, tense truce and he was elated, though he honestly couldn’t say why.

“The _point_ ,” Draco continued, “is that he gets knocked out of a windowsill and tries desperately to get back to her. He has all these terrible adventures, but when he finally he gets back to the house… they get thrown into the fire together.”

“Lovely bedtime tale,” Neville snorted.

“Shut up,” Draco exclaimed jovially, immediately glancing cautiously at Neville as though he’d been too brazen. Neville just smiled a small smile and Draco relaxed again. “It is actually beautiful,” he continued. “But that's what I feel like. Being here.”  
  
Neville definitely did not understand. He turned to lean his back on the railing, fiddling with the label on his bottle. “Like a soldier with one leg who fell out a window?” He asked. “Like a ballerina in a fire? I don’t follow.”  
  
“No. No,” Draco said with a huff. “It’s like I did all this dumb shit just to try and get back to people who I loved.”

Neville nodded, though he wasn’t sure he understood.

“And then I didn't even have the decency to die in the fire,” Draco concluded quietly.

Neville was silent for a long, long time. He felt Draco’s eyes drift uncomfortably between the side of Neville’s head, the river, and his beer.  Finally, he watched in his peripheral as Draco put his bottle on the railing and began to walk away.

“Your metaphors are dumb,” Neville said as Draco reached the bottom step.  
  
“I know,” Draco replied, not turning back. “My point is that I'm sorry. I'm sorry, but it doesn't mean much, in the end. I'm here because there's nowhere else... and...”

Neville started to follow him off the porch, sat on the first step.

“He did everything for the ballerina? Even died?” Neville asked.  
  
“Yeah. But see, the important thing about that story?” Draco said, sighing heavily. “He didn't know the ballerina at all. He thought he did, but he'd never even spoken to her. He loved her because he thought they were the same. He never learned that it was just an illusion.”  
  
“Illusion,” Neville echoed. “Is that all it was?”  
  
Draco shrugged. “Ballerinas don't stand on one leg all the time.”  
  
“Yeah, well... Soldiers don't have to keep fighting once a war is over,” Neville said gently.

He didn’t know why he cared. Well, no. If he was honest, he knew exactly why. He needed to know _more._ Where and when had softness appeared in Draco _Malfoy_? Was it the beginning of a transformation, or the end, or just a moment in time? Had he changed, or become who he was always meant to be?

Either way, soft grey eyes studied the lines of his face, and pale cheeks blurred as Neville softened his own gaze. He released a long breath and brushed off his hands. He stood up and picked up both their bottles. Draco began to walk away again.

“I’ll meet you down here at ten tomorrow,” Neville called out. “We’ll have you Apparating by the end of the month.”

* * *

Their lessons did not start out going well; Draco was a terrible student, uptight and unable to focus. Neville couldn’t stop laughing everytime the former Slytherin started cursing a blue streak and spinning pointlessly on the spot. More than once, he had been abandoned on the field of the monastery where they were practising, when a fed-up Draco Malfoy had stormed away.

But as they reached the middle of August, Draco had actually worked out moving short distances without splinching himself. He tried to pretend he didn’t care, but Neville had, by this point, spent quite a lot of time watching him and he _was_ pleased with himself.

“Eighteen,” he called across the field to where Draco was standing.

“Twenty-one,” he called back, shaking his head.  

“Are you seriously counting the times in the hoop?” Neville answered with a laugh.

Draco threw his hands up, “Might as well! Since I’m never going to pass!”

“Fine,” Neville conceded. “You’re such a giant baby.”

Draco dropped his arms and visibly ground his feet. Neville did his best not to laugh again; he was going to have to show Draco what he looked like when he got ready to Apparate. It was embarrassing, and the dignified, haughty blonde deserved to know how foolish he looked.

Neville’s chuckle died in his throat as a crushing weight landed fully on top of him, knocking him to the ground and sending the air from his lungs until he choked. He’d been standing at an extremely awkward angle, and the crunch as he crumpled to the ground was instantly sickening.

“Oomph,” Draco groaned. “Sorry. You okay?”

He climbed cautiously off of Neville, who held out his wrist, which was already throbbing and chuckled a pained, humourless laugh.

“D'you know, that’s the second time in my life that _you’ve_ broken this wrist,” he mused, sitting upright.

“Shit,” Malfoy exclaimed, wide-eyed. “Fuck, I’m so sorry. I swear it was an accident.”

“Nevermind,” Neville said, pulling his knees up and breathing deeply. “I’m fine. I’ll just head up to the castle. Poppy’ll have it mended in short order.”

“I—” Draco stuttered. “I could do it?”

Neville eyed Draco sceptically and was unnerved to discover that Draco was staring straight back. Moreover, he was very, very close. The fall had knocked his hair off kilter, and he had a slight gash across his cheek from the brambles his face had landed in. His expression was one of hesitant concern.

“I’m good at healing spells,” Draco added as Neville continued to stare. “Or… I mean— seriously, I’m really sorry, Neville. I can just walk with you up to the castle.”

“Nonsense. You can try. Go on then,” Neville said suddenly, his voice gruff and hoarse. From the pain, he decided. He held his wrist toward Draco, who looked at him for a moment before gently taking the limb in warm, dry hands. Neville suppressed a wince.

The murmured spell that Draco used was unfamiliar to him, but as he waited, the pain slowly disappeared. He sat with bated breath as Draco continued to mutter, his skin growing warm at the point of contact.

“Done,” Draco said eventually, voice soft and wavering. He didn’t immediately let go of Neville’s arm. “How does it feel?”

Neville didn’t pull away, and wasn’t aware of his other hand moving until his knuckle was grazing softly across Draco’s face.

“You hurt yourself,” he whispered. Draco flinched, jerking his cheek away.

“It’s nothing. I’m fine. I should go. Lots of work to do,” Draco said, dropping Neville’s arm and standing quickly. “Thanks for the, er… lesson. Sorry again. Have Poppy check on that tomorrow.”

“Draco,” Neville called, still on the ground and a little flustered. Draco paused in his speedy retreat. “Twenty-two successful jumps.”

Draco smiled a guarded smile. “We’re counting me breaking your arm as a success?”

Neville grinned, nodding.

“You are ridiculous, Longbottom.”

Neville just laughed.

* * *

 “I’m not ready,” Draco whispered as the examiner approached.

“Stop being such a coward. You’ve got this,” Neville said, clapping Draco on the back and wincing inwardly. He’d been doing that all week; unintentionally touching Draco and then instantly regretting it. Their tenuous friendship wasn’t ready for physicality, and he had no idea why he kept doing it. Draco studied him for a moment and took a deep breath.

“Fine,” he conceded. “But I am definitely going to say I told you so when I fail.”

“Mr Malfoy?” the examiner called. “When you’re ready, I only need to see one successful jump of more than ten metres. I’ll meet you at the gate up there?”

Draco nodded and the examiner Apparated, becoming a small waving figure at the top of the hill.

“You’ll be fine,” Neville insisted as Draco looked at him wildly. He ground down into his feet, inhaled deeply, grinned.

And Apparated.

From his position at the bottom of the hill, he watched the small speck that was Malfoy land at the other end, watched the examiner shake his hand and clap his shoulder, and then watched as — just like that— the examiner disappeared. He remembered their sixth-year Apparition tests taking much longer, but then again, there had always been at least six or seven students needing to pass. Neville cheered out from where he stood and watched as the remaining figure on the hill turned to face him. He was too far away to tell what he was saying or thinking, and he waved before Disapperating.

Draco reappeared a moment later, within a breath of Neville’s forehead. He always managed to forget they were nearly the same height until Draco stood in front of him. Neville was tall; the experience of being level with someone wasn’t common.

Neville opened his mouth to try and congratulate Draco, but he never managed to get the words out, because his lips were suddenly otherwise occupied. Draco’s hands were in his hair in an instant, and his whole body was resting it’s weight against Neville and kissing him, in a sloppy and desperate way that he recognised but had not anticipated while standing on a grassy hill in Scotland.

Neville gasped and stepped back so they didn’t both topple to the ground. His hands were still where they had landed, clutching at Draco’s hips, gripping t-shirt and digging nails in, but he stepped his torso back even further until there was actual space between them.

Draco was breathing hard, a wild, needy look in his eyes.

“Sorry,” Draco exclaimed. “Fuck, Merlin, bloody… I'm an _idiot_ — I’m sorry, I honestly just meant to say thank you and then suddenly —“

“Draco!” Neville yelped, releasing Malfoy and putting his flailing hands in his own hair instead, desperate to occupy his palms and fingers, keep them from their current desires. “We talked about this… you agreed! Not in Scotland! Not near the school!”

“I know,” Draco whined. “I know! I honestly don’t know what came over me…”

“You’re the one who made a huge deal about this! When you found out you were placed at Hogwarts!” Neville continued. “Why now?”  

Draco huffed. “I mean, you were just _there,_ every _day_ . With the helping and the touching. Fuck you just… You don’t understand what it’s like Neville. Knowing what it’s like, what _you_ are like, and then suddenly not being able to touch you. I thought…”

“You thought what?!” Neville demanded.

“I thought I had more self-control,” Draco said, slumping down into himself in defeat.

“Let’s go,” Neville growled.

“W-what?”

“Let’s. Go,” Neville repeated, extending his hand.

He twisted them through the squeezing blackness of Apparition, so that they were they were standing on the porch of the house again. As soon as both his feet were on the ground, Neville was backing Draco into the door his hands everywhere, a determined expression on his face.

“What are you doing,” Draco whimpered, a moan scratching at the back of his throat as Neville attacked his neck.

“Exactly what you _knew_ was going to happen when you kissed me down there a minute ago,” Neville growled harshly. “But, what’s more important, is what we are doing immediately after _that…_ or at least, immediately after the second time… And a shower.”

He hesitated, contemplating. “Okay, so tomorrow,” he amended. “Tomorrow, we are going up the castle to inform McGonagall that we are… that we have… that this is a relationship.”

“Neville, we can’t, I told you—“ Draco protested.

“Yes, well you’ve lost your vote,” Neville murmured, still assaulting various parts of Draco’s body while trying to unlock the door with the wrong end of his wand. “Your last clever plan of ‘we’ll just pretend we barely know each other’ went _ever_ so well.”

“I…I can try harder,” Draco said, breathless, clamouring at the hem of Neville’s shirt.

“Draco,” Neville laughed meanly. “You were on me, in _public_ , before the summer was even out! Just because I helped you! That is _not_ going to work.”

“But—"

“Draco,” Neville said softly, leaning his forehead against Draco’s. “I don’t want to try not to want you.”       

Neville didn’t wait for another reply. He ground his knee between Draco’s legs and got a hand on the doorknob long enough to twist it open. Draco wasn’t protesting the contact anymore and started scrabbling at Neville’s clothes as the door opened.

“Well, fine,” he said hoarsely as he gasped for breath. “In my defence, I didn’t know I was going to be in a flat above your house when I suggested that plan.”

“Sure, blame the house,” Neville laughed.

“I don’t,” Draco said, divesting Neville of his shirt. “I blame the porch.”


End file.
